


Return to Baker Street

by dwblogs



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-05
Updated: 2014-05-05
Packaged: 2018-01-22 02:25:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,833
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1572683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dwblogs/pseuds/dwblogs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Moriarty has returned. Therefore John must return to Baker Street. It's the only way to keep Sherlock safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Return to Baker Street

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first part of a Work in Progress for the lovely Elena on the occasion of a very big birthday! Love and kisses to you darling!

John stretched languidly, arms above his head; feet sticking out from under the blankets. Sun streamed through the window. He rubbed sleep from his eyes and smiled. It had been far too long since John had slept without nightmares. He felt like a new man. 

The nightmares had started the day Moriarty returned. The day he almost lost Sherlock again. Night after night, he woke up covered in sweat and tears. Each dream was the same: Moriarty had Sherlock. John knew that Sherlock would not be safe until Moriarty was not only found, but killed; properly this time. John planned to do it himself. Each night when he awoke, shaking and sick, Mary would try to comfort him. Each time he pulled away. He loved her still, was working on forgiving her for her lies and deceit. It would take time. As for why he was terrified for Sherlock’s safety with no thoughts to his wife; John didn’t dwell on that. He wasn’t sure he could handle the answer. 

After months of watching her husband dwindle before her eyes, Mary had sat John down and calmly told him he was no longer welcome in their home. She said she was leaving, going away for a while to process things and continue her recovery. She had lost the baby not long after that fateful night and was still recuperating. Mary knew that without the baby, there was nothing to make John stay. John had felt the loss, but with the return of the biggest threat to Sherlock’s world; grief turned itself into fear and worry. He had stared at Mary as she told him of her plans to leave and that he should do the same. “You belong with him,” she said simply. “You’ll sleep better knowing he’s safe.” 

John had wanted to argue, if for nothing but for the reason he felt like he should. But he couldn’t. He knew she was right. Things would be better this way. So he had packed a bag and showed up on the doorstep of 221B last night, tentative and scared that Sherlock would not want him back. Sherlock, barely looking up from his microscope, had merely asked “What took you so long?” and went back to work. 

Already things felt familiar. Right. John knew that this bed, in this flat, was exactly where he belonged. He could keep Sherlock safe this way. Sherlock. John bolted upright, ready to pounce down the stairs and confirm that his best friend was indeed safe; when he heard the first measures of a Bach concerto floating up the stairs. John sighed, falling supine once again. Sherlock was safe and that meant all was right in John’s world. 

 

Sherlock heard John stirring in his room and picked up the violin, making sure it was in tune. He smiled, a small but genuine flit across his face, as he thought about John being home. This was where he belonged. This way, Sherlock could watch him. Keep him safe. He knew that John would never stay away from the game; the chase, especially with Moriarty in action once more. Having him here meant being able to protect him. And if his heart was warmed knowing that the man he loved most in all the world would be back by his side, that was no one’s business but his. He wouldn’t do that to John. Their friendship was too important. Sherlock didn’t mind much. He was content to have someone like John consider him to be a friend. He had never been someone’s friend before, so to have John hold him in such high esteem? That was enough.   
The rustling from upstairs turned more agitated, and Sherlock could feel the tension and worry coming from the no-longer empty bedroom. He quickly began playing the first thing that came to his mind. The Bach concerto flowed out of his fingers and the air around him stilled and he sensed more than heard John relaxing back into the bedclothes. His John was worried about him. This time, the smile stayed firmly on his face. 

Sherlock didn’t have a chance to bask in domestic bliss for long. Before John even made his way completely down the stairs, Sherlock’s phone was ringing.   
“Sherlock Holmes.”   
John smiled at the familiar tone that was equal parts disdain at being bothered and curiosity about who or what was waiting at the other end of the line. He studied the look on Sherlock’s face and his pulse began to quicken. He knew that look. That was the look of a hungry dog. It must be Lestrade. There would be a case. Hurriedly, John began gathering his things. He stuffed a piece of stale toast in his mouth. About the time he finished chewing, Sherlock called for him.   
“It’s a murder, John. There’s no fatal wounds, no signs of a struggle. Everyone thinks it’s suicide. Lestrade wants to be sure.” With a flourish of coat, Sherlock was gone; down the stairs and hailing a taxi before John got both arms through his jacket.   
The ride to the crime scene was quiet. John soaked it in, relishing the familiarity of it all. He was speeding through London on his way to solve crimes with…his best friend. He mentally chastised himself for not knowing initially how to finish that thought. Sherlock was his best friend. Anything else would exist only in dreams.   
Within minutes (seven; John counted) Sherlock had determined the young lady was poisoned by her dry cleaner. He was applying light coats of industrial pesticide to the clothes before they were picked up. The toxins were absorbed through the skin and she was dead within hours of getting dressed that morning. Nothing Sherlock found challenging or interesting. 

Until the gun went off. 

Shots rang through the flat, coming from nowhere and everywhere all at once. Lestrade and his men fired in all directions. They could not place where the shots were coming from until they saw a man, sniper rifle in hand, running down a back alley adjacent to the block of flats across the street. Every officer present ran after him. Sherlock and John stayed huddled on the ground where they had been riding out the firestorm. John’s hands were itching for action. He hadn’t had a chance to fire his own weapon because at the moment of attack, Sherlock tackled him to the ground and would not move. He looked at the man now. Sherlock adjusted his coat and stammered out an explanation. “Well, I couldn’t have you deciding to get shot on your first day back. I may have use for you yet, Doctor Watson.” Before John could make a suitable retort, he heard the crack of a gun and felt burning pain in his right arm. He spun around, all the while falling toward the ground. The last thing he saw was the butt of a rifle traveling quickly toward his face.   
John moaned. He opened his eyes. Oi. Everything hurt. He looked at his arm. The bleeding was stopped already. It was a graze more than a wound. He was thankful for that. Though he did like this jumper and hated that it was ruined. He sat up and saw Sherlock on the other side of the room with John’s pistol in hand; pointed at the temple of a young man tied to a chair. Sherlock looked at John as he began to stand up. The man, John noted, visibly relaxed. He had been tense. No. He had been worried.   
“Lestrade is on his way. They caught the other one a few miles west. Neighborhood ruffians working for the dry cleaner. Dull.” Sherlock relayed this information without taking his eyes off their hostage. “Look at this man.” Sherlock pointed to John, his voice lowered into a growl. “You should thank whatever puny God you pray to that he is living. If you had killed John Watson, you would have not gotten out of this room alive.”   
John’s breath caught in his throat but his reply was obscured by the sound of Lestrade and his men barging into the apartment. They were separated, looked after, and finally sent on their way home.   
That settled it. John was going to say something when they returned to the flat. He couldn’t just let that go. 

Sherlock slammed the door to 221B closed and actually locked it for the first time in memory. John, exhausted and coming down from his adrenaline high, collapsed on the sofa. Before he even knew what was happening, Sherlock was on his knees, staring into John’s face and looking for signs of distress. John spoke without opening his eyes.   
“I’m fine, Sherlock. Really. The wound is superficial. It looked much worse than it actually is. I am alright.” John sighed and opened his eyes to a sight he almost couldn’t believe. Sherlock; eyes brimming with tears and hand hovering over John’s hair. Without thinking, John reached up and gently stroked Sherlock’s cheek. “Hey now, there’s nothing to worry about. You aren’t going to be rid of me that easy.” John smiled and started to pull his hand away until he felt Sherlock leaning into his palm. The fire was gone from those beautiful eyes. No longer were they bright with life; they looked more like the sky full of an oncoming storm. Grey and full of thunder. Despondent. Lost.   
John opened his mouth to reassure his flatmate once more, but before he could, Sherlock’s mouth was on his. The soft lips were searching, hungry, looking for answers. Without thinking, John moved his hand to the back of Sherlock’s neck and pulled him in tighter. When he licked Sherlock’s lips open, John felt a sigh echo against his mouth. He almost came undone right then and there. The kisses were hungry and rough. Both of them needed the reassurance that this was real, was happening; that they were safe.   
Running his fingers through those enticing curls, John felt a shiver run down his spine at the softness. He pulled slightly harder than intended but had no time to regret the mistake as Sherlock bucked his head back and moaned. Instinctively, John’s hips bucked up and in that moment, everything changed. Sherlock, eyes no longer drab but shining, heavy lidded with lust, stood up from his place on the floor. John’s heart dropped and began to fear the terribly awkward conversation his was about to have when a hand appeared in front of his face. Sherlock’s outstretched hand beckoned to him. John licked his lips and looked up to see Sherlock staring. Impatience battled with desire as the dominant expression on his face. Taking Sherlock’s hand would be the nail in the coffin of their old relationship. It would be accepting an invitation. It would be admitting to something he wouldn’t admit to himself. It would be saying yes. 

John closed his steady doctor’s fingers over long violinist’s fingers and let himself be lead into the bedroom.


End file.
